The Holiday Season
by IronAmerica
Summary: A freak snowstorm blows through Palm City just in time for Christmas.  So the question is, how do the heroes and villains of Palm celebrate the season when they're buried under three feet of snow?
1. Vince and Orwell

Chapter One: Vince and Orwell

The meteorologists called it the storm of the century, outside of the plain…_unnaturalness_ of the three to six feet of snow that had been dropped on a south Californian city. The citizens of Palm City grumbled epithets under their breath as they had to purchase winter coats and shovels, many of them for the first time in their lives.

Vince was stuck in his subterranean home, cursing the lack of heat and the snow keeping him locked in. His partner, Orwell, was cursing the lack of internet. Needless to say, neither of them was enjoying the start of the Christmas season—even without taking the snow into consideration.

- o0o -

"Is there any coffee?" Vince asked for what seemed like the hundredth time. He'd started the coffee brewing nearly an hour before the snow came in, and hadn't been able to find the pot since.

The snow had come in through the open exit, and Vince had only learned about it invading his home when he'd felt the draft around his toes. It had been too late to save his coffeepot.

"Shut up Vince," Orwell grumbled, pinching the bridge of her nose as she tried to remember another access code for the Ark satellites. Her internet connection had succumbed shortly after Vince's coffeepot, and even the newest and best of Ark's satellites wasn't cutting through the storm front.

"Sorry Orwell," Vince mumbled, before sneezing and pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders. He scowled at the snow drift that he and Orwell had managed to clear part of the way out of the lair—the drift that his coffeepot was still buried under. The vigilante looked up at the calendar, and glowered some more. "Damn."

Orwell looked up, an expression of alarm on her face. "What?" She looked panicked, as though she'd heard that Ark was about to bomb her internet provider (or was about to land on her front stoop).

"It's Christmas," Vince said, still staring at the calendar. "How did I miss that?"

Orwell rolled her eyes. "Concentrate, Vince. There are more important things at the moment than Christmas." The hacker swore under her breath as she lost the connection to the internet. And she'd almost had it that time, too…

"What's your deal?" Vince asked, fixing a glare on Orwell. "It's Christmas! I realize that the entire city is buried under three feet of snow, but it's _Christmas_. And look at this way," he added in a wheedling tone, "no one is committing any crimes while the snow is burying everything worth stealing. We both get a free vacation, and _you_ don't have to update your blog." He grinned, looking pleased with himself. The vigilante then sneezed again, shooting a longing glance in the direction of his deceased coffeepot.

"Why do you like Christmas so much?" Orwell asked, looking incredulous. The overall effect was comical, given that she was wearing a winter coat that made her look like the Michelin Man's wife.

"It's…it's Christmas. I spent it with my family all the time—and gave many prayers of thanks that my parents lived on the east coast. Me and Trip—we'd get a tree that looked great, and we drove Dana crazy all the time when we decorated it…" Vince trailed off, laughing. "Last year, we made popcorn strings—it was Dana's idea," he added, seeing Orwell's look, "and it drove her nuts when the two of us kept eating the popcorn. She eventually gave up trying to make them and we ate the popcorn." He grinned, clearly lost in more pleasant memories.

After a few minutes, Vince shook himself. "What was your last Christmas with family like?" he asked, peering at his partner. Orwell looked away, pulling the hood on her coat up. "Come on Orwell," Vince wheedled, "you can tell me."

Orwell stared at her computer screen for a few minutes, silent. Vince was about to jump up and start pacing again when Orwell finally responded.

"I spent my last Christmas in the emergency room."

Vince felt his face flush, suddenly sorry for bringing up bad memories.

"I was living in an apartment, and my landlady invited me over for Christmas dinner. She was actually Muslim, but she knew that most of her tenants celebrated Christmas. I guess it was just because she knew I didn't have anyone…" Orwell trailed off, an odd smile on her face. She shook herself, and continued. "The turkey burned, and my landlady broke her wrist trying to put out the fire."

Vince bit his lip to keep from laughing. Injuries weren't exactly funny, but something that… normal and mundane happening around Orwell… It just didn't fit in with his picture of her.

"Why do people like spending Christmas with family so much?" Orwell asked, jolting Vince out of his thoughts. He frowned, pulling his blanket back up over his shoulders.

"Because it lets us know that someone still likes us enough to be around us, I guess." Vince shrugged, sneezing. "It's just the one time out of the year that people seem to actually like each other. Maybe that's why—or because we've got nowhere else to go, and who else do you spend it with but family?"

Orwell sighed, grinning. "You are so weird Vince," she said, but at least she was smiling.

- o0o -

Author's note: Yes, I realize it's June. I just wanted a Christmast story. Bear with me here. And if you didn't like this chapter, well... It might get better.


	2. The Carnival of Crime

Author's note: this chapter is un-beta'd. You have been warned.

- o - o -

Chapter two: The Carnival of Crime

As a general rule of thumb, the members of the Carnival of Crime weren't religious. If they were, they kept it quiet or were encouraged to mind their own business. As a whole, though, the members of the carnival firmly believed in the existence of weather gods and Lady Luck.

(Lady Luck was practically their patron goddess, as many of the veteran members of the carnival were quick to attest to. The carnival almost depended on her favor to survive their heists intact with as few injuries as possible.)

The weather gods, on the other hand, ruled their lives with a sort of sadistic glee. Everything the carnival did depended on the weather. Given that the winter holidays were generally one of their slower seasons, many of the carnies didn't mind the bad weather. People still came, but not in as great numbers as they did during the summer. Bank robbery tended to pick up in the winter.

The sadistic tendencies of the weather gods were proven beyond a shadow of a doubt when they decided to dump over three feet of snow on Palm City overnight. Any prospect of business, legitimate or otherwise, was crushed as soon as Ruvi returned to the main tent with a half-frozen Rollo.

Rollo had been out to get a newspaper when the snow hit, and had been buried shortly thereafter. Ruvi took great delight in teasing the diminutive carnie about the snow drift he'd been stuck in.

(Rollo won the subsequent argument by hitting Ruvi as hard as he could in the crotch.)

"I don't think we'll be doing anything for awhile, Max," Rollo said as he accepted a mug of some hot concoction from Raia. Given that the woman made most of the alcohol available in the carnival, he didn't really want to know _what_ he was drinking. At least it was hot.

Ruvi snorted and muttered something under his breath. He was the only member of the carnival not bundled up against the snow and the cold, although he had made a concession in the form of a blanket that Raia had draped around his shoulders.

"Ruvi!" Raia said sharply, whacking the hypnotist on the back of his head. "That is not nice!" She turned to look at Max, the owner of the carnival, and sighed dramatically. "I don't know when I was elected to be their mother, but I demand a recount."

Max grinned, taking a drink from his ever-present glass of red wine. "You're the only one keeping them from killing each other." He looked around the main tent, which was fairly barren considering the season, and sighed. "Popo is still with his parents, I take it?"

Raia nodded, sitting down next to Ruvi, who drew her in next to him under the blanket.

"Yeah," she replied, smiling at Ruvi. "He should be back sometime next week. Marie, Trent, Lupe, and Quinn are staying somewhere in the city—I didn't want to know any more than that, considering their habits" she added hastily, seeing Max's questioning look. "Wendy, Amy, John, and Erick are still hanging around in their trailers, though. Christmas is going to be pretty quiet this year, unless you want to drag Julia and Vince in?"

Rollo rolled his eyes. "And listen to Vince brood all night? No thanks." Raia reached around Ruvi's shoulders and whacked Rollo.

"Rollo!"

Rollo muttered something rude under his breath, rubbing the back of his head. "Sorry Raia," he muttered.

Raia smiled at Max and said "I think we _should_ invite Julia and Vince. And besides, Vince deserves a night off—and in this weather; he's probably freezing to death in that cave."

"All in favor?" Max asked, as if he actually wanted the votes of the other members. A few muttered ayes came from his regular crew, and he glanced in the direction of John's trailer. He didn't want to ask when he saw the lights flick off again. "All opposed? No? Ruvi, Rollo, go dig Vincent out of his cave. I have a feeling he's been buried."

The two carnies left with muted grumbling about the weather and the snow in general. Raia watched them go, smirking. "More wine?" she asked Max, picking up the bottle from its place by the fire pit.


	3. Peter Fleming

Okay, so it's up earlier than expected.

Un-beta'd; so all mistakes are mine.

- o – o -

Chapter three: Peter Fleming

As a general rule, Peter Fleming despised winter and almost everything associated with it. He hated the snow, the bad weather, and the memories associated with the winter holidays. In defiance of his childhood traditions and upbringing, the billionaire typically spent his winters in locations that weren't known for any kind of snowfall or, more and more often, working.

The snow still falling outside his penthouse window was practically a personal affront in that respect. Southern California rarely, if ever, received snow. This storm front was causing him no end of annoyance. A glance at his cell phone had the billionaire muttering a curse under his breath; the reception was still out, and was likely going to be out until the snow left for whatever frozen hell it came from.

The cell tower—the tower he'd paid several million dollars to have installed—was completely useless in the face of the snow. Fleming had expected better from his hardware specialists; he'd fire them when he got cell phone reception back.

Due to the failed cell tower, he'd missed a fairly important call when the snow had rolled in; he was now being forced to wait out the damn weather pattern, as even the internet was down. Fleming's only consolation was that Chess, his annoyingly snide alter-ego, was more miserable than he was.

_Turn the damn heat back up, Peter. I'm freezing._

Fleming, mindful of whatever staff might have been lurking about, hid a smirk behind his mug of coffee. His annoying second personality had taken one look at the snow and immediately retreated. Chess's parting demand had been for Fleming to turn the heat up.

In response, Fleming had turned the heat down. The penthouse was now quite probably colder than outside, but it turned Chess into a whining, childish mess.

_Peter, turn the heat up _now_, or the next time I'm in control, I'll drop you off the side of a cliff._

Fleming sat down in one of the armchairs that faced the window, still smirking. It was so nice to have a quiet moment where he could just relax, even in weather like this…. The billionaire looked at his phone again, growling in annoyance.

_Peter, turn the heat back up or I swear I'll kill you._

Peter smiled and cheerfully ignored his alter-ego. The last time he'd heard someone complain that much about the snow and being cold was shortly before his daughter's tenth birthday. Fleming frowned, trying to quash the sentimental memory before Chess got wind of it but…too late.

_Ahh, Peter, it's so cute! You're such a sentimental sap._

Fleming groaned and managed to stifle a curse as he realized that Voyt had entered the room. Hopefully that man was going to tell him that the snowplows he'd requested from Nevada were on their way.

Voyt held up a piece of paper with "**Price?**" written on it with a black marker. Fleming irritably wave the lackey away, still caught up in a mental argument with Chess. He'd get back to Voyt later.

"Shut up, Chess, or you'll never get to drive again," Fleming muttered, trying not to move his lips. The memory of that last Christmas had been a poignant one, despite Jamie's whining.

His wife, Diana, had still been alive and healthy at that point. Being a lover of all things wintery, she'd managed to coerce Peter and Jamie to go on a skiing holiday. The arguments she'd used on him, as Fleming recalled, had been rather…vigorous. And who knew _what_ Diana had said to Jamie to convince her to give up the South Pacific that year.

But Jamie had been excited that her parents were finally letting her come on a "grown-up's" vacation with them…for all of a day. Prior to that, Jamie had been proud of her status as an adult, snow or no snow.

Fleming winced as Chess made one of his usual uncouth comments—something about his wife's breasts, which was below the belt as far as Fleming was concerned.

Diana had so enjoyed the snow and skiing, and Jamie had wanted to be her mother in every way. The ski trip had started out well enough; before it turned into an unmitigated disaster for Peter, who had twisted his ankle trying to keep up with his wife and daughter.

Diana had had a grand time, racing down all the slopes as fast as she could. Jamie had tried to do the same, until she realized that, while her parents might have considered her an adult, the people who ran the ski lodge in Switzerland did not. And even her father's money wasn't going to convince them otherwise.

Peter and Jamie had spent the rest of the week sulking in the lodge; Jamie because she couldn't follow her mother down the Black Diamond run, and Fleming because he'd twisted his ankle.

"Sir?" Voyt asked suddenly, breaking through the sentimental cloud surrounding Fleming's mind.

"Offer them six thousand a truck, if they get here in the next twelve hours," Fleming ordered. "I would prefer to still have a viable city after the New Year." He took a sip of his coffee, and grimaced when he realized that it'd turned into stone-cold sludge.

"If you don't mind me asking sir, why's the heat off?"

"Just proving a point," Fleming responded, ignoring a comment from Chess as he went to get a fresh cup of coffee.

"And you're turning blue, sir," Voyt responded. "At least put a coat on—I don't want to have to explain how my boss froze to death in his own home."

Fleming raised an eyebrow, but grudgingly turned the heat up a degree or two. In the back of his mind, Chess began cheering for the head of security.

Voyt left the room, presumably to contact his own family to let them know that he was stuck at Ark Towers until the snowplows arrived.

Fleming stood in front of his window again, fingering a keychain in his pocket. He sincerely hoped that, wherever his daughter was, she was staying warm.

- o – o -

So, too sappy? Not evil enough? Just plain weird? Drop a line and let me know.


	4. Scales

Un-beta'ed; all mistakes are my own.

Please read the following warning before you read this chapter:

**This chapter contains child-abuse. I apologize in advance for any trauma I may inadvertantly cause readers of this chapter-but if you ignore this warning and keep reading, it will be your own fault. **

_**CONSIDER YOURSELF FOREWARNED. **_

- o – o -

Chapter four: Scales

Scales sat in his darkened office, doing his level best to ignore the holiday music that had somehow wormed its way past his closed door. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it every year, the damned holiday season always appeared to annoy him.

While he wasn't the Grinch (and the employee who'd made _that_ comparison had ended up in traction), Scales found himself agreeing with the fictional character on one point: Christmas was a nuisance. And for the love of God—why did it have to be so _loud_?

If Scales had been asked to sum up his feelings about Christmas as succinctly as possible, he would have described it as a personal hell. Scales was fairly sure, speaking from his personal experiences with the season, that there were at least a handful of people in Palm City who'd agree with him.

Considering the snow currently burying the city, the number had probably jumped exponentially. The last report he'd heard on his CB radio—which he'd retrieved from the big rig shortly before holing up in his office—was that the snow was topping in at four and half feet.

The snow, which had effectively trapped the smuggler with a bunch of happy-go-lucky holiday-loving maniacs, was slowly driving Scales insane. The man contemplated the gun on his desk for a minute before discarding it as a bad idea. Shooting himself would be counterproductive, shooting his minions even more so.

At least Kazzie, God bless his sense of self-preservation, had convinced the rest to leave him well enough alone this year.

Scales groaned as he heard the muffled question that seemed to accompany every damn Christmas he lived through. The variations changed from year to year, but it was always along the lines of "Does the boss mind us doing this without him?" It was one of the newer members of his crew—one who hadn't weathered Scales' legendary temper for more than a month or two.

Then, Kazzie's annual reply. It followed a general formula of: _The boss doesn't celebrate Christmas…Ever. Don't bother him—he'll probably kill you!_ It was becoming a bit of a game for Scales to guess what formula Kazzie's reply would follow; this year seemed to be following the "It's very personal so don't bug him until after the New Year" formula.

Scales leaned back in his chair, feet propped up on the desk as he contemplated the many reasons he despised Christmas. Many of them stemmed from his childhood, as one prison psychiatrist had guessed. (Scales had been to one evaluation, during his first and only incarceration.) Privately, Scales agreed with the man; not that he'd be letting the headshrinkers know that, of course, as he made it a point never to let them know when they'd gotten anything right concerning his psyche.

The only time the smuggler could remember celebrating Christmas was the year he'd turned seven; he'd still been a circus freak at that point. He'd also been royally screwed up as a nipper, if he remembered correctly—after all, living in a cage for one's formative years, and into the first tentative stages of adulthood, wasn't exactly normal.

It had been a white Christmas that year, Scales recalled with a morose glance out the window at the gently falling snow. The circus' owner and emcee, Mr. Frederickson, had pulled the circus into upstate New York for the off-season that year. (Scales thought it was because he'd run out of the funds needed to get them to Florida that year.)

Being all of seven at the time, he'd wanted nothing more than to get out of his cage and run around in the snow. Unfortunately, two things had happened that had nearly killed him.

The first was that Mr. Frederickson had taken to yelling at Greg McClintock. McClintock was (supposedly) Scales' adoptive father; Frederickson didn't buy it, but McClintock had an incredible stash of blackmail, so he'd dropped the matter.

To his childish delight, McClintock had let him out of the cage and taken him across the yard. Little Dominic had wanted to stop and play in the snow, but…

_McClintock grabbed a larger handful of Dominic's shirt as the seven-year-old tried to run off again, and proceeded to drag him back across the yard to his trailer. Damn Frederickson and his damn bleeding heart, McClintock had muttered._

_Being too young to understand what it meant, Dominic cheerfully repeated it—and received a good clout around the ears for his troubles._

_The trailer that McClintock lived in was a silver Airstream; to Dominic's mind, it had to be one of the coolest places to live in existence._

_Even if Mr. McClintock was walking a little funny—like he did when he was drunk—Dominic decided it was just because the man was tired. Everything _had_ to be better on Christmas, because well…it was _Christmas_._

Scales snorted, still lost in the memory. Fat lot of good that had done him. McClintock was a violent drunk, and almost always on the sauce no matter what day it was. And he'd been cracked enough to think that Christmas would make a difference…

_Dominic knelt by the orange crate that served as a coffee table, tongue sticking out between his teeth as he concentrated on his picture. McClintock had put him down next to the crate, fished out some paper and a packet of crayons, and told the seven-year-old not to bother him._

_That had been almost an hour ago, but Dominic was _sure_ that his foster dad (he'd heard a lot of people that Mr. McClintock worked with use that term) would like this present. He'd started it after seeing the spindly Christmas tree sitting forlornly in one corner of the trailer; now, the result lay in front of him on the crate._

_It was a card with a carefully drawn picture that had used up the red, blue, and green crayons. Scales, grinning, looked up at Mr. McClintock. His mouth pulled down into a miniscule frown as he saw the man take a pull from a bottle of Jack Daniels. _

_Well, maybe since it was Christmas this was the only bottle he'd drink. He stood up and picked up the card carefully, before walking over to the desk where McClintock was sitting._

_The uncorked bottle of JD was now on the desk again, half-empty. It smelled nasty, and Dominic wrinkled his nose. Maybe his card would cheer the man up enough to make him stop drinking—if only for Christmas Eve._

_Dominic tapped his guardian on the arm, holding his present behind his back. "Mr. McClintock?" The man scowled down at him, eyes slightly unfocused; Dominic smiled back unsteadily. Before he could lose his nerve, the younger Scales thrust the card onto the desk and promptly stared at his feet, chewing on his lower lip. "Merry Christmas."_

_McClintock looked down at the piece of paper on his desk, expression unreadable. Dominic had a second to wonder what he'd done wrong before the man exploded._

Scales winced at the memory and rubbed his ribs. He'd been all of seven and hopelessly naive. And, being all of seven, had hoped that Christmas Eve would preempt an all-night drinking session. He hadn't recognized the signs of a drunken rage, either. McClintock had taken one look at the card and had promptly given him one of the worst beatings he'd ever received.

The smuggler muttered something under his breath as he snatched his gun up off the desk and began disassembling it. If there was one useful thing he'd learned from that twister, it was how to throw and punch and break bones on the first swing.

He'd spent that Christmas in the cage, nursing three broken ribs, a broken arm, and a fractured wrist on top of the multiple concussions he'd gotten from being slammed headfirst into the desk. Dominic had also courted pneumonia and hypothermia that evening when the temperatures dropped below freezing. He spent two days in that cage, praying to die as he slowly froze.

After that, he'd never celebrated Christmas. Hell, he'd never looked at anything related to Christmas without feeling some lingering resentment and the start of a berserker rage.

The smuggler rammed a full clip home into his reassembled gun and stood up.

Enough wallowing, Scales thought. He opened his office door and took aim at the radio, putting three neat holes through the inner workings. The Christmas music came to a blissful, sudden halt.

Kazzie muttered something under his breath and quieted the other minions with a glare. "Going out boss?" he asked carefully, moving slowly away from his fellow criminals. Scales scowled at the man, tugging on his trench coat.

"I'm going to get utterly pissed up. When I get back, this mess will be gone." With that, Scales stalked out of his warehouse and into the snow, intent on getting as drunk as he could. There was a fairly decent pub near here; if he was lucky, he'd be the only patron that evening. And maybe he'd play a few games of pool, and imagine that he was hitting McClintock's head with the cue instead of a cue ball.

- o - o -

So. My take on Scales' past-as seen in the partial glimpes of it from his flashbacks in episode four and several interviews with Vinnie Jones.

Again, I would like to apologize if I made anyone's day really horrible or triggered any traumatic memories. It was not my intention.


	5. Tents are not snowproof

Un-beta'ed, all mistakes are mine.

Note: this chapter may be undergoing some construction work as soon as I figure out what was bugging me. Be aware of that.

- o – o -

Chapter five: The Return of the Carnival…with a frozen Vince and Orwell

Vince had long since given up on his coffeepot. It was a lost deal, and he was freezing. Orwell was doing little better, despite the winter coat that she'd gotten from God knew where. She was in a foul mood from the lack of internet, and was refusing to speak to him.

The former detective mumbled something under his breath and dug another blanket out of the chest underneath his bed. He'd pulled on most of the clothing he owned—four t-shirts, a turtleneck, one pair of jeans and six pairs of socks—and was still freezing. There was a reason he'd never moved out of southern California.

"I swear to god, as soon as Fleming is behind bars," Vince said as he stared at the snow drift, "I'm moving to Death Valley."

"Right," Orwell muttered under her breath. Vince stared at her and sighed, shaking his head.

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?" Vince asked, grinning. Orwell shook her head, still typing. "What are you even doing anyways? You can't seriously have any work to do, not with the snow killing your internet connection."

"I'm writing my will," Orwell replied absently.

Vince blinked, unsure of how to respond to that. "Um…. Okay." Whatever else he was going to say was superseded by someone sliding headfirst into his lair. Vince immediately went on the defensive, wondering just who the hell would be out in below-freezing weather.

It was Rollo, and he was dragging a coil of bright orange rope behind him.

"Rollo! Are they still breathing?"

Apparently Ruvi had tagged along as well. Rollo turned around and yelled "Yeah! They're still alive!" The dwarf turned back to Vince and Orwell, shrugging in a "what can you do" kind of way. "Hey man. Hi Julia," Rollo said, by way of a greeting.

"Hello Rollo," Orwell said, smiling. "Come to freeze in this cave too?"

Vince scowled at Orwell, who smiled back benignly. "Did Max send you?" Vince asked, choosing to ignore Orwell for the moment.

"Yeah, he wanted to know if you'd rather spend the holidays in Trolley Park," Rollo said, sitting down on the snow drift. "Unless you want to freeze in this cave," he added with a grin; Vince scowled. "Nice coat, Julia."

Orwell grinned and began packing her computer back into its bag. "I'd like that," she said. "Vince, you coming?"

Vince muttered something under his breath, but grabbed the duffle bag with his costume and followed Orwell. At least he'd get out of the lair this week.

The snow had gotten worse by the time the four reached the carnival grounds again. The neon orange rope that Rollo had strung out along the path came in handy—if it hadn't been there, they probably would have gotten hopelessly lost on an otherwise familiar route.

By the time they entered the big top, the snow was up to Orwell's waist and well over Rollo's head. They were looking forward to getting into dryer clothes and getting something hot to drink. Unfortunately, the weather gods had other ideas.

Raia was in the center of the big top, swearing in more languages than Vince or Orwell knew existed. Judging by the expressions on Rollo and Ruvi's faces, they hadn't heard some of them either. That, or they were surprised at the change in the normally quiet woman's temper.

"The big top, as you can see," Raia said with a sweeping gesture, "Is experiencing some difficulties holding up under the snow." She was standing in the center of a snow drift. The source of the snow was a gaping hole in the roof of the tent.

"Damn," Rollo muttered, craning his neck to look up at the roof. "I take it we're vacating the premises?"

"As soon as Max hears you four made it back," Raia confirmed with a nod. "We're heading somewhere with a generator and booze. Max swears he knows of a pub near here with both."

"And so I do," Max said, appearing behind Orwell. She gave an odd little squeak, jumping almost a foot. "Hello Julia," he said with a warm smile. "Nice coat."

Orwell muttered something under her breath, most likely related to everyone's comments about her coat. It was warm and she'd fished it out of her closet before heading to Vince's lair. And it was a good thing, as the snow had hit about the same time she got there.

"The snow isn't letting up," Ruvi commented, looking up at the rapidly darkening sky with an apprasing eye. "You know," he muttered as the group prepared to leave the carnival grounds for somewhere warmer, "this is exactly why I left Romania."

Wisely, no one commented.

In short order, the six reached the pub Max had spoken about. It was out-of-the way, but it was well-lit and looked sturdy. When they made it through the door, which they promptly shut behind them, they were hit with a wall of hot air.

Rollo and Raia headed straight for the bar; Raia began flirting with the bartender almost as soon as she reached it. Rollo paid for alcohol, which he carried back to the table that Max had appropriated.

Ruvi was the first to notice Vince's shell-shocked expression, and commented on it. "Vincent? What's…" And then he saw what had frozen Vince in place.

In an out of the way area of the main bar, was Dana Faraday. She was slow dancing with someone that Ruvi couldn't quite make out in the dim lighting, and seemed to be enjoying herself.

His jaw nearly hit the floor at the same time as Vince's, because there, dancing with Vince's wife, was Scales.

Ruvi had a feeling this was going to end badly.

- o - o -

Okay, so the latest chapter. What do you think? Good, bad, horrible, or kill it with fire? Drop a line to let me know.


	6. Dana and Trip

Woo-hoo! Chapter 6 is finally here! Two chapters left, officially making this the first story I'll have completed on this bat channel.

Un-beta'ed; all mistakes are my own.

- o – o -

Chapter six: Dana and Trip

Dana Faraday was bored out of her mind, and the holidays had just barely begun.

The public defender's office had shut down for the holidays, Travis had gone to spend Christmas with relatives in Iowa, and Dana had nothing to do during until after the New Year but stare at the walls. Trip had retreated to his room, refusing to leave except for meals, and Dana couldn't find it in herself to scold him for it.

She had prepared herself for a long, dull holiday with lots of tears on Christmas from missing Vince. Then her mother called, inviting her and Trip to come up to Eureka for the holidays. Dana Faraday hadn't gone to her parents for Christmas in years, not since she'd married Vince. Her parents had come down to Palm City once or twice for Christmas before Trip had been born, but the atmosphere had been horribly forced and uncomfortable.

(They hadn't exactly approved of their only child marrying a soldier who was constantly deployed, but they'd made an effort because clearly their little girl was happy with the scruffy city-boy.)

But it was that, or spend the next two weeks slowly going mad as she waited for Trip to show some sign of life that didn't involve moping or nightmares.

Now, a day after the call had come in, she and Trip were bundled up and in the car, on their way north to Eureka. Wool sweaters were standard wear in Humboldt County, even in spring, if Dana recalled her childhood correctly.

She had expected a bit more resistance from Trip initially, but it seemed that her son was just as eager to get out of Palm City, if not for the same reasons. He hadn't said anything, but Dana knew what his classmates had been whispering behind his back; she'd heard similar things from some of her coworkers the first few weeks she'd been a public defender.

"So, are you looking forward to Granma and Grandpa's?" Dana asked, looking the rearview mirror at her son. She'd never liked silence, as many had discovered; she'd brought a radio in to work after figuring out that Travis and Kia were the only two who'd talk to her—and they had horrendous caseloads of their own to work through.

Trip shrugged noncommittally. "I guess." He looked out the window, frowning. "Is it supposed to be snowing that hard?"

Dana muttered several curses under her breath after looking out the window. She'd heard the report about the snow blowing in, and had hoped that it'd only be an inch or two. This was shaping up to be several feet at least. "No sweetie," she said, "I don't think it was."

She reached down and turned the radio on. Almost all the stations had switched to an emergency news broadcast centered around the weather. All roads out of Palm City were being closed on account of the snow, most of the roads were quickly being swamped, and everyone was being advised to stay home.

"They could have mentioned that sooner," Dana muttered under her breath as she began looking for somewhere to pull off. There was no way she was going to be able to turn around now, not with the snow coming down as hard as it was. "Trip, sweetie," she said, "Keep an eye out for a parking lot or something. We're gonna have to pull off until the storm quiets down some, okay?"

Trip nodded and craned his neck to look out his window. After ten minutes of slow driving, Trip spotted a turn-off. "Mom, over there!" He pointed out the window, gesturing at a building that was nearly obscured by the snow that was falling harder than before.

Dana had no idea how he'd spotted it, but she was grateful all the same. She pulled in and parked the car. It was a bar, but there were still lights on; she'd ignore the former in favor of lights, and hopefully a telephone. She was not looking forward to calling her parents…

There was only one other patron in the bar as Dana and Trip entered. He was playing pool by himself, and there was a bottle of beer resting on the wood frame. The barman, who'd seen the two Faradays enter the bar, caught Dana's eye and shook his head.

Dana nodded—interfering in another patron's woes was not a good thing. "Go sit over there," Dana said, shooing Trip over to one of the booths. After making sure that her son had complied, she walked over to the bar, heels clicking on the floorboards.

"Excuse me," Dana said, drawing the barman's attention. "Hi. Uh, is there a phone here?" The barman nodded. "Great. Where is it?"

He jerked his thumb towards a hallway to the left of the bar. "Back there, past the ladies' head. The ladies bathroom," he clarified, seeing Dana's confused look. "Sorry, old habit." Dana smiled and headed to the phone. This was going to be a fun phone call to make.

Half an hour later, Dana stalked furiously back to the bar. Her parents were great when they weren't trying to micromanage everything. Not showing up—because of a freak snow storm, mind you—apparently meant that she was no longer interested in her family. There were times where she absolutely _hated_ her parents. They'd forgive her eventually…maybe.

Trip was not seated at the booth where she'd left him. Dana sighed, muttered a general indictment against ten-year-olds, and turned to ask the barman if he'd seen where her son had wandered off to…and didn't have to ask.

There was her son, watching the other bar patron playing pool. The man was speaking quietly, and Trip appeared to be listening. Okay, time to go give her son a lecture about talking to strangers.

Dana froze when she got to the pool table. The man speaking so calmly to her son about the game of pool was none other than Dominic Raoul, the crime lord of Palm City.

- o – o -

Alright, there's chapter six. Chapter seven expands this a bit more.


	7. Crime Lord Conundrums

Here's chapter 7. One more left after this!

Un-beta'ed; all mistakes are my own.

- o – o -

Chapter seven: Crime lord conundrums

Scales looked up first. He looked unsurprised to see Dana standing in front of him, and that worried the woman to no end.

Dana had no idea how to process the image of her son talking to Dominic Raoul, who was by all accounts a sociopathic monster. This version of him, so calm and collected, was odd. That her son was taking this so calmly—taking to a stranger, and a criminal at that—was either worrisome or a sign that he was taking Vince's death even harder than usual.

"Close your mouth luv," Scales rumbled, straightening up. "You're gawping like a gargoyle." He leaned on his cue pole, looking bored but content with the world.

Dana shut her mouth with a click. Unsure of how to respond to the criminal, she turned to her son. "Trip," she said carefully, "What's going on? I thought I told you to stay at the booth." Trip shrugged, before replying.

"Sorry mom," he muttered. He was trying to look contrite, and failing miserably. "I got bored, and—"

Scales reached over the table and lightly whacked Trip. "None of your lip, boy," he said. "Be polite to your mum, who's obviously worried about yoursen."

Trip scowled at the criminal, rubbing the back of his head. Dana blinked, dazed by how…_normal_ the criminal in front of her was acting. If she hadn't already done so, she would have pinched herself to make sure she was awake and hadn't wandered into the Twilight Zone.

"Sorry mom," Trip muttered contritely.

Dana nodded, and was about to reply when the radio suddenly crackled to life. She was almost grateful for the distraction when she caught a look at Scales. His face had frozen into a mask of pure and utter hatred.

"Turn that shite off," Scales barked, scowling at the barman. The man rolled his eyes and began fiddling with the tuner.

"Bite your tongue, Dominic," he retorted. "I'm looking for something that won't offend your oh-so delicate sensibilities." Judging by the smuggler's expression—one of annoyed patience—exchanges like this were common between the two of them.

"If you must fiddle with that thing, at least find something classic," Scales replied, picking up his pool cue. He shrugged when he saw Dana's expression. "I like music I can dance to."

"Uh huh," Dana muttered, eyeing the smuggler warily.

"What? Don't you dance?"

Dana shook her head mutely. Scales just sighed, bowing his head in apparent defeat. He looked back up, a quizzical look on his face.

"Never learned then?" he asked, face now unreadable. "Or you just don't dance?"

Dana blinked, and then laughed. "Oh god, I haven't danced since…since my wedding." She grinned, and then her expression fell. Vince… God, had it really been that long since she and Vince had danced together?

"Ah. Your much vilified husband," Scales nodded. He laughed at Dana's expression. "Sorry darling, everyone in my world knows who you are." He shook his head, laughing. "Molinari's got a detail organized to keep reprisals to a minimum—did you know? He thinks it's hilarious that a cop got framed that badly."

Dana scowled, before what the smuggler said hit her. "Wait, what?"

"Yeah," Scales chuckled. He pulled his wallet out of his trouser pocket and passed a few dollars to Trip. "Go get a pop or sommat, lad," he instructed the ten-year-old. Trip glanced at his mother, who nodded. She was still shell-shocked at the two revelations that had been dropped on her.

"Your dearly departed husband was framed," Scales said cheerfully, sitting on a stool by the pool table. "Molinari figures that the only way Chess could still be kicking around on my docks is that your husband is a cockroach—not that I'm ignoring that possibility, mind—or he was framed. That dozy bastard actually wants to keep you alive—figures he'll get in good with the actual Chess if he keeps you two, yoursen and your boy over there, alive."

"Vince…was framed?" Dana whispered.

"Mmhm," Scales nodded, affirming Dana's greatest hope. "And the real one is making a right cock-up of my business."

Dana felt faint at that. Her husband had been framed, and the real Chess was still out there. Arms surrounded her and she let herself be pulled towards a seat. A few seconds later, something cold was being pressed into her hands.

"You alright there, ducky?" Scales asked, peering down at her. Dana looked up, and then down at her hands. Someone, most likely Scales, had given her a diet coke. It said something for how surreal the last thirty minutes had been that she didn't burst into tears or start laughing hysterically.

"I…I think I'm fine now," Dana whispered, still staring at the bottle of soda.

"Alright then," Scales said cheerfully. He sat down across from her, and gestured to someone just out of her sight range. Trip soon came into view, and he sat down beside his mother. Dana hugged her son with one arm, still feeling a little disoriented.

The three of them sat in silence for a few minutes, until the radio crackled to life again. Scales was about to start swearing when the music finally started.

It was definitely music that could be danced to. The barman grinned, and winked at Dana when she looked up. Scales sighed, and stood up.

"Care to dance then, darling?" He grinned, holding his hand out to Dana.

Trip laughed at his mother's expression and scooted off the bench so she could get out as well. The woman gave a long-suffering sigh and stood up, taking Scales' hand.

"Now, this one is easy to dance to ducky," Scales said as he began guiding Dana around the barroom floor. "It's all in the hips, and it's slow—you shouldn't have too many troubles with it."

Dana laughed. The man she was dancing with might have been a criminal, but he had also given her the first ray of hope she'd had in months. Just for tonight, she'd pretend that he was just another person, and she'd dance.

Several minutes passed, and Dana continued to enjoy herself. Neither of them noticed the door opening to admit several people, all dressed in a variety of cold-weather gear.

And Dana never noticed the man who paused in the doorway to stare at her dancing with a wanted man.

- o - o -

Well, here's chapter 7. Wtchcool-this should explain the ending of chapter 5 a bit more for you.


	8. I'm Sure You've Heard This Joke Before

Hey, it's the last chapter, folks! It's been fun, writing this story and listening to your feedback. Those of you who've reviewed are amazing, as are those of you who read my story and have encouraged me to keep writing. Thanks for making this fun to do, rather than a chore.

Special thanks go to: wtchcool for his/her reviews, which were fun to read; Suzicles, for being the first to review my story; and Orwell-is-watching-xoxo for her extended feedback on AIM as well as her numerous reviews. It's been great, y'all.

Un-beta'ed, as always.

- o – o -

Chapter eight: So a criminal, a superhero, and his mentor walk into a bar…

It was surprising how much self-control Vince had, especially when confronted with something that would normally have driven him to murder. When he, Orwell, and the carnival had left the carnival grounds due to the snow, he hadn't expected to come face to face with his wife.

He definitely hadn't expected to see her dancing with, of all people, Scales. While the smuggler might have been the lesser of two evils, Vince was not happy to see the deformed criminal dancing with his wife. She was so obviously happy about something… It stung, he had to admit.

Ruvi's threats had also played a factor in Vince staying his hand. After three minutes of watching Vince mope, the hypnotist had threatened to make Vince believe he was a six-year-old girl named Ellen. He even threatened to have Raia dye all of Vince's things pink—and, worst of all, Orwell had agreed to help.

That had been over an hour ago, now. Vince was working his way through his third beer of the evening, and his mood hadn't improved. The scaly bastard and Dana had stopped dancing nearly ten minutes ago, to Vince's (and the carnival's) relief.

Unfortunately, the smuggler had taken to teaching Trip how to play pool.

It was infuriating to watch a criminal—an wanted criminal—work his way so easily into what Vince's life should have been. Only Orwell, who was sitting beside him and rubbing small circles into his shoulder, was keeping him from running across the room to beat Scales to a pulp.

"Vince," Orwell said seriously, forcing the vigilante back into his seat, "Are you trying to get yourself killed? Or your family for that matter?" The hacker sighed, continuing her ministrations. "At the moment, Scales isn't doing anything dangerous. He's just playing pool with your son—and apparently giving him tips on fighting dirty, I think; and Dana is actually smiling."

Vince mumbled something under his breath, and began studying the mug in front of him with a scowl.

Orwell rolled her eyes. "Now, you can go over there and stop Scales. There are two consequences that I can see right now. One, he kills your wife and son; two, he kills you, and _then_ he kills Dana and Trip. Or," Orwell added, "You can sit here and mope into your beer while planning revenge for later. Your choice."

Vince mumbled something into his beer that might have been acquiescence or an indictment of his partner, and continued to scowl at Scales. Orwell smiled at him, and concentrated on her own beer. She looked pleased that the hot-tempered vigilante had listened to her…for once.

Unfortunately, Orwell's contentment wasn't going to last much longer. Rollo, never one to let go of a grudge, had started across the room towards the pool tables. Orwell would have called out to stop him, but settled for burying her face in her hands. This was _not_ going to end well…

Scales was, dare he even think it, actually enjoying Christmas Eve. He'd come down to the bar with the stated intention of getting royally pissed up, only to be confronted with the widow of a dead cop and her son. And now, he was…enjoying one of the worst nights of the year.

The radio was playing _Fly Me to the Moon_, which Dana had admitted to liking. Trip had made a gagging noise, a fairly clear indication of what he thought about his mother's choice in music. Dana had just grinned and invited Scales to dance to it.

The smuggler had been pleasantly surprised by the woman's initiative. Either Dana had processed the shock better than most grown men he knew, or she was teetering on the edge of a very steep cliff. Either way, he wasn't one to turn down a dance.

"You seem to be handling this well, ducky," Scales muttered quietly, keeping one eye on the carnival. He wanted as little to do with those tossers as possible, especially while he was enjoying himself. The rangy looking one in the hooded sweathshirt, however, was beginning to worry the smuggler.

Since he had entered, the man hadn't stopped staring at Dana. He wouldn't put it past the carnival to have an Ark plant…or someone out for revenge. Scales scowled at the man, trying to make it clear that he was bigger and meaner—without tipping his hand to the woman he was dancing with.

"Hm," Dana muttered noncommittally. "I'll tell you what I think after I've gotten over the shock." Scales grinned down at the petite woman, and then bowed as the song ended.

"You've done better than most would, ducks," he rumbled. Dana nodded and sat back down at the booth.

"I've gotten used to the idea that my husband is going to be remembered as a psychopathic mass murdered, despite the fact that he's innocent." Dana sighed theatrically, and looked at her son. Trip was staring longingly at the pool table, bored with the adult's talking.

"Boy's got one hell of a game," Scales said quietly. Dana nodded, and then pointed at the tables.

"Go. He's going to start chewing on the furniture pretty soon."

Scales laughed as he lifted Trip over the back of the booth. "I remember what it was like at that age…" Let it never be said that he wasn't a good liar. Dana looked relieved, and went to the bar to order another coke.

Before Scales could join Trip at the pool table, the dwarf who'd smashed his knee several months ago chose that moment to approach Dana. Somehow, he had the feeling that this wasn't going to end well.

The smuggler kept one eye on the developing situation as he moved closer to the bar. He had a pool cue, but the shotgun that he knew the owner kept under bar was a much better deterrent. God knew what the little tosser was up to.

"You're that dead cop's wife," the dwarf said, staring at Dana. Scales muttered a quick prayer under his breath when he saw the look on the woman's face. This woman was under _his_ protection for the moment, and if that meant keeping her from an emotional break-down, he'd do it.

(And he'd quite cheerfully skin the little bastard alive.)

"What about it?" Dana asked cautiously, voice cold.

"Just asking," the dwarf muttered, before scowling up at Scales. "Is that guy bothering you?" He gestured at the smuggler, who'd come to stand behind Dana.

Dana looked up at the man who towered over her, and shook her head. "I'm quite alright, thank you." A warm, reassuring hand rested on the small of her back, causing Dana to smile. She'd wake up in the morning and this would all be a dream, but for now, she was just grateful to have someone backing her up. Even if he was a smuggler.

Scales smiled, and eased himself in front of Dana. "I find myself being lenient this time of the year," he said amicably, hefting the pool cue in his hands, "So don't annoy me."

Rollo was about to make a move when someone cleared his throat.

The barman had placed his shotgun on the bar, and was staring rather pointedly at Scales and Rollo. "Scales, I don't want to have to scrub blood out of my floors again." He turned his attention to Rollo. "And you. Stop antagonizing my best customer."

Scales grinned, placing the pool cue on the bar. "Sure, Ryan. Not a problem," he added, smirking at Rollo. He glanced up and saw the magician and several of his cronies standing at the ready.

The smuggler sighed, rubbing his temples. "Merlin, stay the hell out of my way tonight." He scowled, taking in the rest of the carnival. "If you leave well enough alone, I'll do the same. A truce—just for tonight."

Malini seemed to consider this for a few seconds before nodding. "Agreed. We don't need bloodshed on Christmas Eve. Rollo," he added, jerking his head back towards the tables they'd claimed, "Come on."

Scales cleared his throat. "One more thing," the smuggler said. "If I hear so much as a 'Happy Christmas' cross anyone's lips, I'll gut them." With that, he turned on his heel and lumbered back to the pool table.

Dana followed him, smiling widely.

**Epilogue**

The snow stopped falling at three in the morning Christmas Day. The bar was oddly silent, especially considering that it was packed with people who would have liked to do nothing more than kill each other.

Scales' imposed truce had lasted through the evening, even with several drunken comments from Vince. The vigilante was unhappy about his wife's budding friendship with the smuggler who'd tried to kill him on more than one occasion, but was unable to do anything as he could barely stand up, let alone hold his own in a fight.

Orwell spent the evening playing poker against Raia, who'd brought a deck of cards with her. They were joined for one hand by Dana, who'd grown bored with the poker lesson that Scales was giving her son. She'd been lead away half an hour later for another dance with Scales, followed shortly by Orwell and Max.

Rollo sulked into his beer for the rest of the evening, commiserating with Vince on their mutual hatred of the deformed smuggler. He passed out shortly after one a.m. from exhaustion. Vince followed him shortly thereafter.

Vince was lucky that he never saw his wife accept Scales' suit jacket to use as a pillow, or watch them fall asleep together.

Trip had fallen asleep long before the adults, and was subsequently the only one awake to watch the plows go by at six the following morning.

It was quite probably the strangest Christmas Eve any of them would ever have. For Scales, it was a novel experience; for Dana, a ray of hope. As to what the carnival thought of the whole evening, no one asked.

- o – o –

Hey all. This is the last chapter of The Holiday Season. I'd like to thank you all, once again, for your kind reviews which have definitely encouraged me to keep writing this. Orwell deserves extra thanks for her excellent feedback during our AIM chats.


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